We Will All Laugh at Gilded Butterflies
by labyrinths
Summary: Series of short vignettes set in an AU universe where Sylar and Claire are both in the same containment facility. Status: complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Part 1: Indian Summer**

By Hedge Labyrinth

_Note: Series of short vignettes set in an AU universe_ _where_ _Sylar and Claire are both in the same containment facility._

She doesn't mind the therapy sessions per say. Most of the time, they sit in a circle an talk a bit of nonsense. He remains quiet, never participating, just glancing around the room with that smug smile on his face. Sometimes his eyes rest on her and Claire looks away.

He shouldn't be there. It is completely unfair that she is in the same category as a serial killer. Then again, Sylar murdered their own kind. His crimes are akin to animal cruelty.

Claire murdered a man. She didn't mean it. But they'd come for Alex, and after West had gone into hiding, she wasn't going to let them take her only friend. So she fought them off.

If you go by the books, Claire is worse than Sylar. What a twisted little world they live in. But she keeps her mouth shut and behaves. She does not complain about the dampening collar that keeps her powers at bay or the bare cell where she lives.

If you think about it, Claire is lucky to be in this facility at all. If it weren't for Noah they would have cut off her head. But she's alive and some strings have been pulled. She's in rehabilitation. She'll get out one day.

It's fine, it really is. Except she has to stand his quiet stares during the therapy circle. Ten months of that stare and his whispered, vicious little comments whenever they happen to cross paths in the exercise yard or the dinning hall.

His oppressive gaze pins her down that day as usual, but she does not let it get to her. Today is a good day and whatever his beef is with her or rather with her father is tossed aside.

When they exit the room, neatly in two rows, Claire brushes her metal collar and laughs.

"What's so funny?" he asks quirking an eyebrow at her.

She's so happy, it's such a nice day outside – an Indian summer, a warm return to joy – and everything is just so perfect that Claire forgets how much of an asshole he really is and answers.

"They let Candice go. It means we might get out soon too."

Sylar snorts. "They're never letting us out."

Well, maybe not him. He's extremely dangerous and just because he didn't hurt humans – Claire's kind doesn't classify as human anymore according to the law – doesn't mean he won't try it in the future. OK, so maybe not him. But her. They'll let her out of the containment facility. One day.

That's what Noah says.

"Whatever," she says, turns her head.

"Candice is dead," he says flatly. "They've killed her."

Claire turns her head slowly. His eyes are very dark, very serious. Then, when he notices her horrified expression, the corners of his mouth rise in a mock smile.

"You're more naive than I thought, princess," he whispers, leaning into her. "Talk to me when you're ready to grow up a little."

Claire takes a step forward, follows the line of women ahead of her and turns left. She glances out a window on the way back to her cell and realizes autumn has begun to nibble on the trees and the false summer has ended.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2: Polite Conversation

By Hedge Labyrinth

_Note: Series of short vignettes set in an AU universe_ _where_ _Sylar and Claire are both in the same containment facility._

The next day she slams her lunch tray on the table and waits. He doesn't bother looking up at her.

"How did you know?"

He continues to ignore her, pushing some stray peas across his plastic plate.

"How do you know what happened to Candice?"

"Unlike other people in this facility, I am observant."

"Do you have proof? Do you know for sure?"

"I can piece things together."

"Then you don't know," she says triumphantly. "You're just imagining things. They wouldn't hurt Candice. They wouldn't hurt any of us."

"They beat Candice regularly. I think they must have gone too far this time."

"The guards wouldn't beat her."

"They wouldn't beat _you_, Claire. Daddy's little darling and all. They beat the rest of us into a pulp, when the fancy strikes them."

"You're making it up," she hisses.

"How long have you been here now? A year?"

"Not quite."

"And you think the world is made of sugar and spice and everything nice? Sit down if you're going to sit."

Claire flexes her fingers, wishing to step away. She doesn't even understand why she is confronting him. Maybe she is merely itching for a fight, after all those months of having him stare at her.

Psychotic bastard. She knows – having torn through her father's files on that one occasion when she was trying to figure out if Alex was right, if they were in fact targeting him for removal – that not only is this the half-whispered boogeyman her dad had been chasing around, but that Claire had in fact been on Sylar's hit list. Her father never mentioned that bit when he got a nice promotion for bagging the "special killer." Which makes the whole situation now, Claire looking down at him, he waving a hand, motioning her to take a seat, the more ironic: this was the guy Noah had been saving her from. Now they share a facility together.

How surreal. Claire sits down.

"You want some proof?" Sylar asks her.

"Yes."

"Well then," he says, carefully unbuttoning the top button of his navy shirt, then a second and a third. He pulls the shirt to the left, revealing two ugly, dark red scabs. "If we're ever alone you can count my scars. I'm amassing quite the collection thanks to the guards."

"Maybe you made them yourself."

"How? With the plastic fork?" he asks, holding it up.

Maybe he's right. Maybe she is naive. Claire blushes at her own stupidity, at her childish belief in the lies they feed her and at the fact that she just caught a glimpse of his bare chest. Then she realizes that Sylar has finally deigned to look at her and is smiling. And he's just caught her with her face flushed and mouth open like a fish, which makes Claire blush even more furiously because she doesn't want him to rejoice in her mortification.

But he is rejoicing.

Claire tries to grab her tray and slide quickly away. He catches her hand and she stumbles, caught in his grip.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asks. "I figured you were coming over for a little chat."

"Change of heart," she mutters.

"Oh, Claire. Don't go. I'm sorry if I've been rude. You can sit down and we'll talk politely, just like old friends."

"I got my answer. Thanks for that. I don't think there's anything else to discuss."

"How about the way we are getting out of here?"

Suddenly she's not so eager to leave his side. She sits down again, tentatively.

"Getting out?" she whispers. "Like in escaping?"

"No, Claire. Like in going out for a spin, watching a flick and coming back for dinner. Of course like in escaping."

"Shhhh!"

"What?"

"Use a code word. Say banana instead of escaping ... or ... or something."

Claire glances at the guards by the doors and in a stab of paranoia she thinks they just heard him – he sounds so loud to her ears – and they'll punish her, and dear God it'll be awful. But the guards are chatting with each other, oblivious to Sylar and Claire.

He rolls his eyes at her and Claire knows she's acting like an idiot. Christ. She's never casually conversed about breaking out of the facility, so who can blame her? Apparently he can, with his smug grin.

"Claire," he says very seriously, the grin dissipating lightning quick, so quickly it startles her, "are you helping me get out of here or not?"

"You think we can get out?"

"Together? Absolutely, Claire-Bear."

She doesn't like the Claire-Bear part one bit. But she loves the idea of escaping. She bites her lips and sighs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3: Comforting Gesture**

By Hedge Labyrinth

_Note: Series of short vignettes set in an AU universe_ _where_ _Sylar and Claire are both in the same containment facility._

The poster in the back of the room reads: "Rehabilitation: You Can Do It." There's a picture of a man jumping in the air, hands raised high towards the perfectly blue sky. If there's anything that Sylar hates about the facility, it's the therapy sessions and the damned tete-a-tetes they must subject themselves to. But today he doesn't mind that much because he is partnered with Claire and instead of having to listen to another idiot babble about his miserable life before entering the facility, he's actually having a somewhat stimulating conversation.

"How much damage can you sustain?" Sylar asks.

"A lot."

"Define a lot."

"I died one time," Claire says, grimacing. "There was a branch in my skull and I woke up in the morgue after they removed it. I don't think there's much that can damage me: falls, stabbings, broken ribs. I heal."

"How did you get a branch in your skull?"

"There was this boy and we were on a date ... I was murdered. Lets leave it at that."

"That's good."

"That I was murdered?" she asks in shock.

"That you are invulnerable."

"Yeah. Cutting your pinkies is a real riot."

"What?"

"Nothing."

One of the therapists in a white coat glides past them, making the rounds through the room and nodding at all the "patients" – now that's a euphemism – doing their one-on-one sob sessions with each other. When the therapists glances at them, Sylar pats Claire's hand in a soothing motion. It's the expected behavior. Sometimes the patients even hug each other and cry. Idiots.

Once the therapist looks away, Sylar pulls back his hand, grimacing.

"I think I can get the collars off," Sylar whispers to her.

Claire nods, her hands clasped together as she leans forward. "How?"

"I'm good at disassembling machinery. Watches, mostly."

"It's not a watch around my neck."

"I'm perfectly aware of what it is. I'm also capable of taking it off with the right tools. You have more leeway around here. A red pass, don't you? Courtesy of dear old dad?"

"Yes," Claire says tentatively. "I can go to the facility's library and the ..."

"I'll give you a list of things I need."

"Even if I _can_ get the tools you want, who is to say you can get it off? The collar is rigged. That's the first thing they tell you at orientation: who-knows-how-many bolts of electricity will zap through your body if you ..."

"If you die, you'll come back to life once I've taken it off."

Claire's eyes narrow. She stares at him.

"You're going to use me as your guinea pig, aren't you?" she says.

"Does it matter? First I take your collar off, then I take mine off."

"After you've burned me to a crisp."

"A small inconvenience. Without the collar suppressing our powers we'll be back to normal in a few seconds."

"O.K., genius. Then what?" Claire asks crossing her arms.

"We stroll out of here."

"With a bazillion guards chasing us?"

"I have useful powers."

"Somehow, I doubt enhanced hearing and photographic memory are going to cut it," she says, looking smug. "I read your file."

His eyebrows rise in amusement and he can almost picture the blonde girl going through her father's documents and coming face to face with his picture, then finding her own name neatly printed under the "targets" sub-heading. Delightful.

"Telekinesis," he replies. "I was thinking of telekinesis, not enhanced hearing."

"The last time you confronted a bunch of tactical officers you ended up here. So who's to say we'll get anywhere?"

"The last time, your father and my girlfriend caught me. Not a bunch of tactical officers. I thought you read my file," he says mockingly.

Claire seems puzzled. She looks at him, blinks and speaks. "Your _girlfriend_ caught you?"

He was being ironic. Or perhaps it was a Freudian slip. Either way, he doesn't like the way Claire says the word. He wishes he had simply said: Elle caught me. Then again, he doesn't like using her name much. No, he should have said: that bitch caught me.

"Yes. She tricked me – we've got something of a pattern – and I ended being electrocuted courtesy of her. Oh, and then your dad kicked me on the head."

"What kind of _girlfriend_ electrocutes you?" Claire asks, apparently alarmed.

He almost feels sorry for Claire and her narrow imagination. She's shopping-mall pretty, painfully average in her wishes and dreams. Little Claire, living in a world of teddy bears and unicorns – there must be tons of teddy bears, she seems like that kind of girl. Probably drawing mermaids on the margins of her notebook and never, ever thinking people could ever be bad. Could lie. Could deceive. Could torture.

"What kind of boy murders you with a tree branch?" he asks, just because he wants to see her face twist and turn sour.

It turns more than sour. There's the beginning of tears in her eyes. She blinks them away and shakes her head.

"Fine. We'll try it. When they pierce your body with bullets, I won't mind. After all, I'm the invulnerable one, no?"

The therapist walks by again and Sylar pats Claire's hand, smirking.

"There, there," he says in a monotone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4: Words Spoken**

by Hedge Labyrinth

_Note: Series of short vignettes set in an AU universe_ _where_ _Sylar and Claire are both in the same containment facility. In this world, "specials" have been under surveillance for several years and Big Brother watches them.  
_

"You must promise not to kill anyone on our way out."

"Why would I promise anything so stupid?" he asks.

"Because you need me. If you don't, I'll just tell my dad about our little plan."

Sylar raises his eyebrows at her. They are in the cafeteria again. Against all odds, she seems to be enjoying her meal. Teenagers. Give them something smothered in grease and they'll lap it up without a question. He badly needs a glass of pinot noir and some real food.

"Don't push your luck," he whispers. "I will not promise such a thing."

Claire huffs at him.

"Where are we heading after we ... um, escape?" she asks.

"Somewhere warm with no extradition treaties," he says. At least _he_ would. She could find her own ticket out of the country.

"Mexico?'

"Farther. I'll figure it out later. _After_ you get me that little something I asked for over three days ago."

"Getting you pliers is not as easy as telling my dad I need lipstick."

"Tell him you want to cut off a pinkie."

"You're an ass."

She shuts up and there is some merciful silence before Claire cocks her head to the left, then leans her chin on the back of her hand and looks at him.

"You didn't tell me the whole story the other day," she says.

"What story?"

"How you got here."

"You didn't tell me much either, did you? Girl-with-stick-in-brain."

She grabs a napkin, tearing little bits of it and dropping them over the table. Then she pushes them around with her index finger.

"Standard story: guy tries to rape girl. Girl struggles. Girl gets stick in brain," she says.

Claire brushes the bits of paper onto her tray and he's not even sure why – maybe he's just terribly bored – he decides he'll tell her. What the hell.

"I got here thanks to your dad."

"I know. He captured you."

"I mean before that."

She fixes her eyes on him.

"Do you remember a few years back, when they started testing for specials?"

"Vaguely. I was a kid."

It slows him down for a moment. How old is she, exactly? Eighteen? Nineteen? He shakes his head.

"I was in high school back then. They implemented 'random' testing and I was positive. Suddenly there's all these people asking me questions, what is my ability, when did it manifest. Only it hadn't manifested. I was just an average kid with a bizarre, off the charts result. Everyone assumed a mistake had been made, that I wasn't really special. I was sure I wasn't special. It would have probably stayed that way if it hadn't been for your dad"

"What do you mean?"

"Your father had this idea that there was something about that was ... wrong," Sylar says. "He kept tabs on me for years and years. Then he baited me, made me kill a man, hence pushing me on my path of destruction."

"A sting operation."

"More like entrapment."

"So you say."

Sylar does not correct her. Instead, he leans back in his chair.

" Your dad and I met again and he managed to capture me, hence fulfilling his old wish to see me in a little padded cell."

"You're skipping over something."

"Am I?"

"The girlfriend."

"Elle?" Sylar says, "She is inconsequential. Just another pawn moved around by your dear old dad."

"How does she fit in?"

"The entrapment part."

"Oh," Claire says and frowns. "She tricked you twice?"

"Yes," he admits irritably.

The first time it had been easy because Gabriel was such a moron that the idea of an attractive woman flirting him was enough to make him melt. No wonder Elle had guided him towards Trevor Zeitlan like a blind idiot.

The second time it was misplaced nostalgia and a dash of cruelty. When Elle had shown up at his door with a sob story about how she was in trouble and there were agents after her and wouldn't he please protect her, he said yes. It was very nice to see her grateful and compliant. Until two weeks after she had first appeared, when Elle blasted him with a wave of electricity and it became painfully obvious she had only been gathering information for Noah on Sylar's most recently acquired abilities.

He should have expected it from a sociopath and consummated liar, but it still stung.

"Did you kill her?" Claire asks, lowering her voice, her eyes very wide.

"Haven't had the chance."

"Would you?"

"Did you kill the boy who wanted to rape you?"

Claire glances down at the table, biting her lower lip.

"I tried to run him over with my car."

"Then you know the answer."

She looks up at him. "If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge," she says.

When he was on her trail, before the facility and his current conundrum, Sylar had written her name with neat, strong strokes. He placed her at the bottom of his list partially because it would be more delicious to get to her later on – Daddy Bennet being that officer with the Bureau of Special Abilities who had been a torn on his side for quite some time – and because he had picked a piece of paper that slipped from one of her books when he was following her the evening before homecoming. The paper was a page torn from a notebook. Claire had drawn a poorly proportioned unicorn and in the corner of the paper were a few words: Not a whit, we defy augury. There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.

Sylar liked the quote enough to let Claire turn to the left and disappear at the end of the street. He liked it enough to mover her down the list.

Sitting before her, he likes quite a bit the way Shakespeare sounds coming from her lips.

"I bet your favorite play is Romeo and Juliet," he says nonchalantly.

"No," she says, shaking her head. "The Tempest."

"Why?"

"Nobody dies in it," she says pointedly.

Sylar likes the lovely half-smile playing on her lips enough to promise he will abstain from reckless murder. At least, for a little while.


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 5: Escape Velocity**

by Hedge Labyrinth

_Note: Series of short vignettes set in an AU universe_ _where_ _Sylar and Claire are both in the same containment facility. In this world, "specials" have been under surveillance for several years and Big Brother watches them._

"You promised no killing people!"

"You believed me?" Sylar asks her and chuckles.

Claire is often credulous. He's got that right.

But she doesn't need him shoving it in her face. She knows it. The same way she knew "tagging" specials had a more sinister connotation.

For the past few years, Claire had supported her dad (both of them, actually) in their efforts to register and track all specials across the country. When the specials were sent to special "facilities" after committing an infraction – after all, a jail wasn't going to hold people who could teleport or melt metal bars – Claire thought that was a good idea. When specials who hadn't done anything wrong, but were a potential threat, started to be followed around and monitored, she didn't think it was too awful because there were people out there who were nuts. Like that man her father talked about, Sylar.

When they said specials had a higher-propensity towards violence, she didn't protest. Hey, she had stabbed herself and jumped off buildings and tried to ram Brody with the car (he deserved it, but still).

It wasn't until they came after that Alex that she had to admit perhaps she was wrong. What potential for evil was there in a young man whose "dangerous" ability consisted of breathing under water? What the hell.

But even then she believed Noah when he said it was being filed as an "accidental" death, and he he'd talked to people and Claire wasn't going to have to face the death penalty – she wondered how they would execute her, even if they wanted to. Decapitation? – because she was going into rehabilitation with a bunch of other crazy specials, and someday she'd get out.

Someday. Sure.

"Oh, cheer up. They're not dead. I think," Sylar says as he pulls a plastic card from the guard's belt.

"You didn't have to make their head into mush!"

"It's not mush," he counters flippantly. "And if you don't shut up this instant, I'm putting that collar back on and leaving you here."

"Try," she hisses.

"Come on, princess," he mutters, grabbing her by the elbow. "You're the one who memorized the facility's maps. Left or right?"

For a moment Claire thinks she'll tell him to go to hell and let them capture them before they've even set a toe outside the complex. After all, she got the damn tools he wanted and the map. All he did was take the dampening collar off. Oh, and the collar zapped her in the process, so he didn't do a great job with that.

"Left," she says.

Left they go and make it into a parking lot and find a fantastically ugly car with a pine cone smell. The gates open and they are out.

And it's so damn easy and Claire is about to congratulate him for keeping his end of the bargain when suddenly there's three armored vehicles behind them. The gunfire starts and she cries out, jumping in her seat. She can't be hurt, but the sudden appearance of the vehicles startles her and she turns her head to feel a bullet whooshing by her ear.

"Hold the steering wheel," Sylar orders her.

"What?!"

"Hold it!"

She grabs it, stiff fingers trying to keep control of the car. He turns around, looks behind him and raises his hand, his face serious and focused. Claire suppresses a shriek when she sees one of the vehicles fly over their heads and jam itself into a tree ahead of them. It's lodged in the branches, balancing at a curious angle. It creates a surreal picture. She twists the steering wheel to the left, narrowly avoiding both the tree and the car.

The gunfire picks up again. Sylar flinches and flicks his wrist, and through the rear view mirror she watches as another car spirals out of control, metal rolling and crunching. But the bullets don't stop. Their windshield shatters, tiny pieces of glass falling into Claire's lap. She's clutching the wheel so hard her knuckles are turning white and there's that last vehicle, still behind them, relentless in its pursuit.

The air seems to ripple around them. Claire can almost taste his anger. He closes his fist, his brow furrows and the third vehicle explodes, collapses, goes flying through the air. Claire is not sure in what order or how it happens. It is so fast that all she chances to see is a tire soaring away and the shadow of the car – what's left of it, the tattered skeleton – sinking between the trees.

She breaths heavily. Sylar shoves her away and her hands fall limp in her lap.

She stares at the road ahead and he says nothing. It's better this way. There's a taste of vile in her mouth as she presses her forehead against the glass.

Claire thinks she never wanted this. She wanted to be normal. She wanted a nice boyfriend and the cheerleading squad. She's got Sylar and a bullet-ridden car.

She picks a piece of glass from her hair.

He stops the vehicle a little while later and she frowns.

"What are you doing?" she asks, lifting her head.

He grumbles something. Garbled words. He opens his door and stumbles out, shuffling his feet, his back towards her. Claire follows him, apprehension pooling in her stomach. She clears her throat.

"Sylar? Do you want me to drive?"

He doesn't answer her. His shoulders are hunched and when she places a hand on his arm he is shivering. He swings around, looks at her and that's when she sees it: he's clutching his stomach, a hand pressed flat against his abdomen, drenched in blood.

"Oh," she whispers.

"Can't die like this," he says thickly.

Claire is about to suggest they rush to the nearest emergency room – God knows where they are, the lonely road they've been following criss-crosses through empty fields and is shadowed with tall trees – when he rests a hand against her shoulder.

One moment he's leaning on her for support, the next she's being pushed against a tree by an invisible force. She kicks in the air and gasps.

Sylar is walking towards her. He stretches a hand in her direction. His mouth is a determined, ugly line cutting his face and the look he wears is like nothing she's seen before. There's a sheer, ravenous fury in him.

It terrifies her.

She recalls the file she peeked at that one time. The target list. The little paragraph summing him up: "focused on gaining more abilities ... approach with extreme caution ... dangerous."

Dear God, she doesn't want to think what she is thinking. She doesn't want to believe he's about to slice her head open like a watermelon. It's his modus operandi and it makes sense, but no. No, no, no.

Claire is often credulous. But it's not because she is foolish. She's an eternal optimist, fighting under layers of doubt, but ever hopeful the world isn't such a bad place as it looks like at first sight. She tries to keep the optimism alive.

"Sylar," she says, her voice rising towards him.

But there's death in his dark eyes and hope has run dry.

"Sylar," she repeats.

Pain flares at her temples.


	6. Chapter 6

**Part 6: Internal Mechanism  
**

by Hedge Labyrinth

_Note: Series of short vignettes set in an AU universe_ _where_ _Sylar and Claire are both in the same containment facility. In this world, "specials" have been under surveillance for several years and Big Brother watches them._

There is a grandfather clock in the living room. In fact, it's the only piece of furniture in the living room, aside from some cardboard boxes. The owners of this house are moving out and have already hauled most of their belongings with them. The old clock sits against the wall, silent and broken. The pendulum does not swing, even as the hands tick away. Perhaps the owners of the house are leaving it behind for that very reason.

For a moment, Sylar feels the need to fix it. Old habits die hard. He shakes his head and reminds himself he is not a watchmaker with dark-rimmed glasses anymore. To hell with the clock.

To hell with her.

He can hear Claire moving upstairs. Light footsteps making the wood creak. He has her power, he has healed. There's nothing else to tie him to this woman and he ought to be heading for the door now that he's taken a shower, washed out the blood spattering his body and changed into other clothes. There's no need to attract unwanted attention by looking like he stepped out of a horror movie.

Claire comes down as he's trying to light a fire. She's wearing ill-fitting men's clothes she scavenged from the boxes: a red sweatshirt and grey pants. Her hair falls in wet strings down her back.

She seems pale when she crouches in front of the fireplace, clutching a bundle of clothes against her chest. In the darkness of the empty house she looks almost ghostly.

When the fire sparks to life, she tosses the clothes into the flames.

"I couldn't wash away the blood," she says.

He shrugs.

The fire crackles. She bites her lower lip.

"Where are we headed now?"

"There's a guy in Oregon. He can provide me with the right papers to get out of the United States, false biometric data and all."

"That's on the other side of the country."

"I don't mind a little driving."

"Do we leave now or do we sleep and head out in the morning?"

"I head out soon."

Claire looks up at him. His shadow falls over her.

"You are taking me with you," she says.

"No," he replies, curtly.

"I'm not asking. You _are_."

"Liabilities, Claire," he tells her. "Your dad will be looking for you."

"I saved your life, you bastard," she says springing to life and jumping up, her palm connecting with his chest as she pushes him back. "You owe me."

He looks down at Claire as she shoves him again. He shoves her back, without touching her. Claire is lifted in the air and her back hits the old clock. He hears the gears growling due to the impact.

"It is not up for negotiation."

"I'm going with you!" she yells.

Her voice stirs echoes across the house.

"Why didn't you kill me?" she asks. "If you wanted to get rid of me, why didn't you kill me?"

"You're different. You're special. And I couldn't kill you even if I wanted to," he says. "You can never die."

She's still pressed against the clock. He lets her go and she falls down.

"And now I guess, neither can I," he adds.

It's a Danish clock, he thinks. A Bornholm. Simplistic at first glance, but sturdy. The clock case looks early Empire, with a wreath motif and delicate, fluted half columns.

Claire lays next to the clock. She leans on an elbow, trying to rise. He grabs her and pulls her up.

Claire is quite short. He looms over her, looks down at her girlish face. Curiously, she doesn't seem afraid. She had been scared, in the forest, next to the car. But even then she swallowed her fear. She didn't yell for mercy or shriek in terror. She said his name, twice. Said it like it was a charm or an invocation.

"I'm going with you," she repeats.

He realizes there is no question mark. Claire is leaving no room for doubt. He could pin her back, use a piece of the glass face from the clock to cut into her head and leave her behind. For some reason, he does not want to be like that boy who attacked her. He has no desire for Claire to experience death twice. Ironic, since he just cut her head off and rummaged in her brain. But he put her back together, fixed her like he might with a watch. He didn't thrust a stick into her skull and tossed her in the river.

Sylar considers the coldness of the autopsy room. The body laying on the slab and some rude, inconsiderate coroner eating a sandwich while Claire lays there in the icy room. The idea displeases him.

"Sit down," he tells her, annoyed. "We'll go as soon as you are dry."

"I don't need to …"

"Just sit down."

Claire folds her legs neatly. He can't see her hands. They are hidden away in the large sweatshirt, sleeves too long.

"Canada. That's as far as you come with me. From Oregon we cross the border to Vancouver. I fly … somewhere. You fly wherever you want to go."

"I get it."

"Stay out of my way and we'll get along fine."

"Stop treating me like your ragdoll," she deadpans.

He quirks an eyebrow at her. "Oh, but telekinesis is so much fun," he says.

Claire pulls her sleeves up, fingertips emerging and she scoots closer to the source of warmth. Around them the house groans and he hears something odd. Tick-tock. Weights moving. Sylar realizes the clock's pendulum is swinging again. The blow must have done something to the old mechanism.

"It's not out of beat," he says, smiling and turns to her. "I think you just fixed it."

"Fixed what?" she asks.

It's so dark he can't see the color of her eyes and her face is an icon of ivory in a halo of pale hair. He wants to say "the clock" and launch into an explanation about the Bornholm in the living room, the beauty of its crowns and why he thinks its been painted over, its original coloring hidden beneath a fake, pale patina of white.

He holds his tongue still, something turning in his head and warning him, like the bell upon a tower. He says nothing to her. A little spark jumps out of the fire. She swats it away.

The clock groans in its case.


	7. Chapter 7

**Part 7: Nuclear Holocaust**

by Hedge Labyrinth

_Note: Series of short vignettes set in an AU universe_ _where_ _Sylar and Claire are both in the same containment facility. In this world, "specials" have been under surveillance for several years and Big Brother watches them._

They need a new car. They've stolen two and ditched them since the woods in Maine, and now that they are in Boston they definitely need a new vehicle. Money, too.

Claire plays her part like graduate of drama school, luring the scummy idiot who thinks he is purchasing sex with a teenage prostitute right into Sylar's hands. For once she doesn't complain when he slams the businessman against the wall a couple of times. His wallet is stuffed with one hundred dollar bills and credit cards. Sylar tosses the cards into the dumpster where he has unceremoniously thrown the man. He pockets the cash.

The first thing Sylar does after they pawn the expensive watch, gold cuffs and lighter is buy some clothes. The shirt he found at the empty house is checkered and makes him look like a lumberjack. Claire gets a new jacket and tries to hide the underwear and bra she is carrying in her hands. He wants to tell her he does not care what she wears, but does not bother.

They find a suitable vehicle with a "for sale" sign in the morning. It's an older model, but it seems in good shape. The owner leans on his cane and views them suspiciously when Sylar offers to pay in cash right there and then.

Claire smiles and chats with him, defusing his worries. Soon, the old man is talking to them like they are old friends.

"I hope you find it useful," he tells them when Sylar is getting into the driver's seat. "My son loved it. They took him a year ago."

The man is not wearing one of the silver bracelets that signals specials, – in Sylar's youth it had been a card, recently changed to a more obvious visual identification – so he must be a normal. Disinterested, Sylar rolls up the window while Claire waves goodbye.

Sylar thinks about his plans to engage in a similar roadtrip. Elle was with him and he honestly believed she was in trouble. They were going to flee the country together. Now he's with the wrong blonde heading in the same direction he had once traced on a map.

Claire turns on the radio, fiddles with it. He doesn't hear the music. He's thinking of Elle.

He recalls the last time he saw her. She visited him in the facility. To gloat or extract more information, he could not be sure. They thought Sylar was somehow connected to a resistance movement organized by some specials. They threw names around, like Rebel and Ellen, but Sylar knew nothing of this. When he told her so, Elle smiled and informed him that he had been her favourite assignment.

Sylar doubted that even the pie she had baked for him when they had first met was real. For all he knew, Noah Bennet had made it, along with the script she was supposed to play. False emotions. False everything.

Claire turns the radio off. She's chewing a strand of hair. His mother would object to such a filthy habit, he thinks.

"Do you really believe I'll live forever?" she asks.

"Why not? Cellular regeneration. You should be able to survive a nuclear holocaust," he mutters. "A cockroach can, why shouldn't we?"

"I'm not a roach."

"Even better."

"I don't like the idea. All I've ever wanted is to be normal."

All Sylar has ever wanted is to be special. The dichotomy amuses him.

"Don't tell me you were normal before. The perfect cheerleader? Bet you were homecoming queen. No disappearing into the woodwork for you."

It had been an entirely different experience for him. Gabriel Gray had shuffled through the hallways of his school as a double-pariah. Not only was he a geeky, gangly youth ripe for a beating, but rumour had it that he had tested positive for "special" powers. He was universally hated. The worst part was that he was not really "special." Whatever result the machine had spit out, Gabriel had no powers, no anything. Bitter disappointment filled most of his waking moments.

Because, he could have been something, someone. He could have been noticed.

"It doesn't mean I was abnormal," she counters.

"Oh, no. I mean, because petite, young and beautiful is such an ordinary occurrence," he replies before he can process the words coherently. It sounds all wrong. Not that he considers her ugly, but he did not intended to shovel it out like that.

Claire chortles. She's annoying him once more.

"What were you like before?"

"Before what?" he asks, avoiding the question.

"You know, before you started eating people's brains."

"Claire, that is disgusting," he says, a little horrified by her breezy comment.

He thinks of Gabriel Gray in his horrid sweaters and his glasses, standing behind his work table. Hair slicked back and parted. Clean-shaved and dorky.

"Dull," he finally answers.

Obviously, it's not enough to satisfy her curiosity. "What did you do for a living?"

"Fixed watches."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"No," he lies.

He does not want to go into a rant about the exquisite beauty of timepieces, the little store with the crowded shelves, clocks ticking in every corner. How he loved the music of their gears. It made him feel safe, happy.

"What did you do for fun?"

"Listen to records. Read. Really, is this necessary?" he asks, in a sudden bout of anxiety. He grasps the wheel tightly. Calm down.

"It's just a conversation," she mutters and then she swears, and he wants to tell her not to swear. Old habits die hard. His mother would have washed that potty mouth with soap.

For a few, precious minutes Claire looks offended and quiet. He is starting to believe they might make it to New York without another session of Inquisition 101 when she's talking. Again.

"Favourite book?"

"Oh, so you don't want to know my favourite colour? Because I thought maybe then we could move onto which celebrity I want to marry when I grow up," he asks sarcasm dripping from his mouth.

"Well excuse me for trying to be nice to you."

"There is no need for it, Claire Bennet," he growls.

"Maybe you skipped the chapter on human interaction, but I didn't. I'm sorry if my chit-chat offends you. I'm sorry if you been waking up on the wrong side of the bed for the last twenty-something years. But I am not going to ride all the way to Oregon with my mouth taped shut."

"That could be arranged."

Sylar considers opening the car door and shoving her out the passenger's side. She's laughing all of a sudden. He wonders what is so funny. Their eyes lock for a second.

"I was thinking," she says, stifling her laughter, "that this is eternity. Two immortals bickering inside a car until one of us gets the courage to chop the other one's head off in their sleep."

"That makes you laugh?"

"It's funny. In a morbid kind of way. Best friends forever. Literally. Awfully. When the world ends, we'll scavenge for twinkies and fight the giant roaches that will dominate the earth."

"That's an urban legend. Twinkies can't survive a nuclear winter. They'd go stale."

"Then just you and me and the roaches."

To Claire, it must sound like a horrible fate. To Sylar, it's not so bad. When he was Gabriel Gray, he had planned on spending his entire existence locked in a repair shop, in the darkness, with nothing but the company of his timepieces. Alone.

As Sylar he thought of collecting powers. People were only interesting for the abilities he could steal from them. Nothing else.

The idea of a world without others does not disturb him. Her lone presence in that world is a splinter in his existence, but it is not such a dire thing. He can think of worse company to spend eternity with. Elle, for one.

Not that he's spending eternity with anyone. He's ditching Claire in Vancouver. She knows it. He knows it.

"_Madame Bovary_," he says.

"Took you more for a _Clockwork Orange_ kind of man," she quips. "Maybe a little Camus on the side."

When he raises an eyebrow at her she looks smug. "They have libraries in Texas," she says, derailing him with her smile.

If he were younger, if he were Gabriel Gray, it would be easy to stumble into a fallacy of timid friendship and camaraderie. If he were Gabriel Gray he might smile back, shyly. If he were Gabriel Gray he might cup that moment in his mind, like a precious flower.

He's Sylar. He switches the radio on. _Don Giovanni _booms around them and drowns out conversation.


	8. Chapter 8

**Part 8: Money Matters**

**by Hedge Labyrinth**

_Note: Series of short vignettes set in an AU universe_ _where_ _Sylar and Claire are both in the same containment facility. In this world, "specials" have been under surveillance for several years and Big Brother watches them._

They have a real fight in New York. Not just harmless bickering. Claire ends up pinned beneath Sylar, flushed, feeling entirely displaced.

This is how it happens: Claire sneaks out, meets Angela for brunch. She's piled her hair in a perfect chignon and looks effortlessly beautiful as she sits down.

Angela follows Claire's instructions, arrives alone with a briefcase at her side and greets her with a smile. Claire explains it again: if she gets the money, she'll disappear from their lives. If she doesn't, or if Angela phones the authorities, every newspaper in town will be plastered with her picture next morning, proclaiming that Senator Petrelli's "special" bastard daughter is a fugitive in the company of a certain psychopath. Oh, and Nathan just happens to be a "special" too. There's no chance he'll become president if that little tidbit comes out.

Angela looks a little bit pleased when Claire makes her speech. She hands the briefcase and the information about the bank account in Switzerland. Claire doesn't think her grandmother ever liked her much, anyway. She remembers that time Angela urged Claire to move to Paris with her, saying the situation of "specials" in the United States was becoming more dangerous every day. Claire suspects it was to simply get rid of her. Well, now's the perfect chance.

"Where will you go, Claire?" her grandmother asks, as she hands her the briefcase.

"Somewhere warm," Claire says. She's not sure why she repeats Sylar's words. She's been thinking of moving to Europe. Not to England. The "specials" situation is worse than in the States. Maybe Russia.

"Be careful. Your friend is dangerous."

"Sylar? He isn't my friend."

"Claire, there is more than one way to protect "special" interests. Some of us have chosen to reform the system from within. Something the Rebellion wouldn't understand."

"Sylar isn't with any rebellion," she says, thinking he's too busy scalping people to pretend he's a hero.

Claire leaves. She hurries back to the hotel where they are staying and when she gets there Sylar isn't around. She tosses the briefcase on the bed and is thinking of taking a shower when he comes in. Claire is about to look around when she is picked up from the floor and smashed against the wall, Sylar drags her up onto the ceiling, pinning her with his power.

"What the hell!" she yells.

"Playing Judas, Claire?" he asks, opening the briefcase and smirking. "Lots of money in there. I wonder how you got it. Perhaps you were selling me off?"

"No," she scoffs.

"I don't believe you."

She falls to the floor, smashing against a table and breaking it in the process. Her head throbs. She wipes a thread of blood away.

Sylar's walking towards her. She grips a heavy, glass ashtray and tosses it to his face. He stops it in mid-air, pushes it back and it splinters on the wall behind Claire. With a careless flick of his fingers, she's hurled towards the television set. Claire falls, watches him approach her. She kicks at his legs and he stumbles with a thud. Seconds later and they are both on the floor. For a moment, she's on top, punching him in the face. There's a glorious moment when she realizes she's broken his nose and he is bleeding; then he cleans the blood off, flips her over.

"Who was the woman you were talking to?" Sylar growls.

"My grandmother," she hisses back at him.

"Your grandmother gave you a briefcase full of money?"

"Yes! So I'd get out of her hair! Not so far-fetched if you had met my dad," she says, struggling to shove him off . It doesn't work.

"I have met your dad."

"Not Noah. My bio-dad."

Sylar looks at her, eyes narrowed.

"Nathan Petrelli. Look, I didn't betray you! I wanted to get some cash so we wouldn't be having to beat innocent people every other night for a few bucks. And if you weren't so busy attacking me before asking questions, maybe you'd figure that out! For a megalomaniac genius you are something of a moron! Get off me!"

It all comes out as a single, breathless sentence.

His face is expressionless, dark eyes fixed on her. She's been too busy struggling to pay much attention to the fact that they are pressed close, his face only inches from hers. If someone were to walk in, it might be mistaken for a lover's embrace.

The thought makes her blush. She thinks it's this which makes him jump, stiffly stepping back from her. Claire pushes herself up and feels an urgent need to lock herself in the bathroom, where he can't see her.

To draw attention away from her, Claire throws the first thing that comes to her mind at him.

"Are you with the Rebellion?"

"No," he scoffs. "What makes you say that?"

"My grandmother thought you might be. She doesn't approve of them. Paramilitary groups are not her thing. It's fundraisers and attending black tie functions for the Petrellis."

He shifts his weight, looks uncomfortable. "You seem different. The hair is ... fussy," he says pointing at her head.

"I was aiming for sophisticated," she says.

"No, I mean, you don't normally wear it like that. I like it."

The chignon must be a mess. Claire raises her hands to smooth her hair back. Quickly, gently, he tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Claire's breath catches in her throat. She turns around brusquely.

"Don't touch me," she mutters. "You can't break my bones and then try to play nice."

"I'm not playing _anything_," he says, sounding angry. "Unlike someone I know, determined to play mediocrity. What are you doing once we get to Canada? Will you get a job waiting tables and serve coffee for all eternity?"

It's like a switch has been flipped inside him. One moment kind, the next back to obnoxious.

Claire looks over her shoulder. "It's better than scooping brains out."

"Of course. Because you want to be normal. Entirely ordinary," he says, taunting her.

"You really think you are extraordinary?" she asks. "You're not. You're a garden-variety jackass. You're _common_."

His nostrils flare. He has this incredulous look on his face, like a bee just stung him.

"I was going to take a shower before you came in," she says, sounding casual and walks to the bathroom. She does it with aplomb.

After she locks the door, she sits down on the cool, white tiles. In a fit of anger she doesn't understand, does not want to understand, she rips the shower curtain off its hooks.

_He isn't my friend, _she tells herself.

When she finally steps out, the room is dark. She gets into bed – he's got the one on the left, she has the one on the right – and she can hear him breathing. Maybe he's the one with enhanced hearing, but right this instant she is sure Sylar sounds like a damn locomotive in her ears. She considers pressing a pillow against his face.

She wants to hell him she is sorry. She didn't mean to hurt his feelings. Does he have feelings? Do killers who set out collecting abilities feel hurt? They've had a fight. A real fight. She hates the sensation that there's something wrong between them; thick anger hanging in the air. It's hilarious. Really. He cuts her head open and now she wants to apologize because she said something mean? How is that logical?

Claire doesn't get it.

_He isn't my friend_, she says, determined.


	9. Chapter 9

**Part 9: Snow Fall**

**by Hedge Labyrinth**

_Note: Series of short vignettes set in an AU universe_ _where_ _Sylar and Claire are both in the same containment facility._

He knows he wants her when they are more than half-way across the country. It happens unexpectedly, in a completely ordinary fashion.

There is nothing salacious about her dress or demeanor. She is wearing the red sweatshirt she picked up at the empty house. The fact that they are to share a bed that night is not a cause of anxiety: they slept in the same bed a few nights before, with no need for a barrier of pillows to maintain modesty. It is practical, logical.

Claire sits comfortably in the centre of the bed watching television and he wonders if she likes the red sweatshirt because she can pretend it is a clothing item from an imaginary boyfriend. That she is dressed in his clothes, sitting in their room. That, in short, she is not with Sylar.

The thought makes him angry. He stares at her.

"Don't be creepy," Claire says as she flips through the channels.

"What?" he asks.

"You're staring at me. It's creepy."

"I was not staring at you. Self-centered, much?" he mutters.

When he approaches the bed she moves to the right, allowing him the necessary space to lay down. He does. He laces his fingers and presses them against his eyes, blocking the light.

He feels it then. Her gaze. He turns to look up at her and Claire turns her head back at the television.

"Who's being creepy now?" he jests.

She's flipping through the channels way too fast. Normally, he would admonish her. He does not have the strength to even try that moment.

There's something that is bothering him, like the soft ache of a tooth. It's in his head. Almost a ticking.

Claire swats his arm softly.

"What's up with you?" she asks.

"Mmm? I'm tired."

"You seemed very far just now."

"Not far enough."

She raises an eyebrow at him. Click, click, click. The images cycle on the television.

"So how did you meet this passport forger?" she asks.

"I haven't met him."

"What, did you e-mail each other and decide to meet up?"

"Something like that."

"How? On Craigslist?"

"I don't remember."

"I wouldn't forget something like that."

Sylar frowns. He wouldn't, either. But there seems to be a hole in his head. All he knows is his address and his first name. He doesn't know how he got the information. It's bizarre. Until now, he has never considered how strange this sounds.

He turns towards Claire wondering what the hell is happening to him. Apparently, he has an amnesia patch.

"There it is again. You're doing the weird stare. You're freaking me out," she says.

It's freaking _him_ out, this sensation that he's standing on thin ice and there's something he should remember. Sylar runs a hand through his hair and he gets up quickly, rushing to the window. He pulls the curtains aside.

Autumn has left in the blink of an eye. Snow is falling lightly, winter gnawing at the window.

"Sylar?"

She stands next to him and glances outside.

"It's snowing."

"Very observant," he growls.

Claire rolls her eyes at him.

"It looks so different," she says, pressing a hand against the cold glass. "Who would believe it, hu? Do we even have snow tires?"

"I'm sure we can get some."

Claire is sliding a finger upon the glass, tracing a long line.

"Lets go outside."

"It's freezing," he replies.

"That's the whole point. Fresh snow. Oh, come on. It's not like we can really get hypothermia."

She's bolting through the door.

"You need a jacket!" he yells. It's what his mother would demand. Old habits and everything.

When she doesn't reply, he grumbles and rushes to the door, pausing to pull his parka from the back of the chair where it is currently resting with a flick of his wrist. Telekinesis really is a handy ability.

He doesn't want to be outside, damn it. But she is ahead of him and he follows. They're trudging through the snow and the trees. It's not very thick, but it's cold and he's got no shoes on, only socks. When they get back, his clothes will be soaked. He's getting annoyed. There's nothing to see out there. OK, some trees and bushes. That's about it.

She spins around a tree, apparently finalizing whatever winter ritual she is enacting, and stops. She looks straight ahead, a smile on her lips.

"It's nice," she whispers.

"Yeah, my fingers are starting to fall off."

"Don't you get it? When was the last time you were able to just take a walk in the snow? We were in that place for so long, I think I had forgotten what snow felt like."

"It wasn't nearly that long."

"It felt like forever."

Maybe it's the way she says it. Maybe it's the way her hair looks in the dark, so pale its almost silvery. Maybe it's the fact that even though Gabriel is gone, Sylar is still a bit of a fool. Whatever the reason, he's dying to kiss her. And there's something burning at the tip of his tongue and there is this vague memory.

_Claire Bennet, _says a voice in his head he can not recognize. _You must find her._

_I don't even know where she is_, says another voice. His own voice.

_You will. We've seen it_.

_Just like you saw the end of the world? Can't say I give a damn._

_But you give a damn about revenge._

Sylar blinks. It's gone. Whatever the hell _that_ was. Daydream or memory ... only it can't be a memory because he doesn't know that voice.

He turns around, stomping to the safety of the motel without bothering to tell Claire he's heading back. He's sweating. Sylar unzips the parka and rests against a tree.

"Wait!" she says.

Sylar turns and frowns.

"What?" he asks.

"You're seriously weird today. Psycho to the max."

"Funny," he whispers. She gets hold of his hand, linking her fingers with his own. He is trying to brush her hand aside. Trouble is, she will not allow him to do it. "Let go, Claire."

Her breath rises in a cloud as she speaks. "No. You're going to tell me what's wrong."

Sylar grits his teeth, he leans down towards her. "I don't need this right now."

"I don't care."

Stubborn. As usual. She's standing there in that damn sweatshirt, looking smug. He wants to rip the sweatshirt off and trace a trail of kisses down her body; take her in his arms and wipe that irritating, self-assured look off her face.

It disturbs him. Not because he is experiencing desire, – hell, he and Elle went at it like lemmings – but because he wants _her_. Claire. And no, he has not placed Claire on an imaginary pedestal as his own vestal virgin. It's just ... he doesn't want it to be her. It's bizarre and entirely wrong.

To put it plainly: Gabriel Gray had a thing for masochism. To put it in his mother's words: he always – a bit of an exaggeration, always meant once, since Gabriel had few girlfriends – found himself involved with difficult women. To put it bluntly: he likes a mean streak in a woman. Elle's bitchiness was a turn on. It's the kind of thing he enjoys. Not sweet. Claire is sweet. She can yell, act tough. But she's a sweet girl, holding his hand because she _cares_ and he likes that. He does. It's just not what he's envisioned in a lover.

"Damn it!" he bellows.

She lets him go. Sylar stuffs his hands firmly in his pockets. He rushes back to the motel; leaves her standing in the snow. He turns once over his shoulder and sees her, a hand splayed against a tree, face pale and confused and a little sad. And she's so very beautiful in the white loneliness.

He wishes he hadn't looked back, like that fool who was turned into a pillar of salt.


	10. Chapter 10

**Part 10: Old Friends  
**

by Hedge Labyrinth

_Note: Series of short vignettes set in an AU universe_ _where_ _Sylar and Claire are both in the same containment facility. In this world, "specials" have been under surveillance for several years and Big Brother watches them._

Claire doesn't know what a forger's dwelling looks like, but she doesn't imagine it as a brightly-lit magazine store with a teenager at the counter, idly munching on a bag of popcorn. The teenager in question has spiky hair and is wearing a black t-shirt that says "Blondie" with the picture of the singer plastered on it. He's flipping through a magazine when they come in, the bell at the door jingling. He doesn't look up at them.

"I need to talk to Tobias Gregson," Sylar says, stopping before the counter.

"Tobias is not in," the teenager says and glances at them. His whole face seems to freeze. "Sylar?!"

Claire gives Sylar a confused look. He told her he didn't know the forger, but the teen obviously recognizes him. Why he isn't running, Claire can't tell. In fact, the boy looks suspiciously happy to see Sylar.

Sylar frowns. "Have we met?"

"It's me, Luke! Is it the hair?" he says running a hand through it. "Different, hu? You look a little different too. Hey, is this Elle?"

Luke's smile takes up almost his whole face. Sylar's face could be made out of granite.

"How do you know me?" Sylar asks very slowly. "Why can't I remember you?"

Before Luke can reply, his whole body is jerked up in the air and he's floating above the counter. He drops his bag of popcorn and its contents spill on the floor. The kernels make a crunching sound when Sylar steps forward. The boy is not smiling anymore. His expression is shock mixed with dread.

"Hey, Sylar, chill. Um ... I'm in the dark as much as you are. I'm not sure what's going on," the kid blurts out.

"Think hard."

"OK! OK! It must be Matt. If you've some sort of brain-frakking going on, it's got to be Matt."

"What about Tobias Gregson? Is he involved in this?"

"Sylar, I don't think ... we better call Matt. I'm not sure what's going on and I'm not even supposed to ..."

Sylar slams the kid against the wall with his power, one, two, three times. Claire rushes forward.

"Tell him!" she yells, fearing Luke is going to get killed before he can ever muster another word.

"Tobias is just a code word! We're Rebellion!" Luke yells. "You're Rebellion!"

Sylar keeps slamming Luke against the well, the teen's head lolling forward and back. There's no need for it, except to satisfy Sylar's twisted sense of amusement.

"Stop it!" she says.

The teenager drops to the floor. Claire rushes towards him. She kneels next to the boy, holding his hand gently. He looks dazed and he's breathing rapidly.

"Oh, God," she whispers. "Are you OK?"

"Ow," the teen mutters.

"What the hell!" she turns, looking over her shoulder at Sylar, who is casually leaning on the counter. "He's a kid!"

Sylar raises an eyebrow at her. He turns from her to look down at Luke. "Listen to me little boy, if you don't want me to splatter your brains all over the walls and re-decorate this store, you're going to start making some sense. What do you mean "we" are Rebellion? Small words, no meandering."

"OK, we met because you and I we're trapped with this freaky doomsday cult. Matt and his buddies, they came in and they rescued us. All I know after that is that you were doing some stuff for Matt. Rebellion stuff. You didn't tell me. Out of the blue you call me one day and say you're getting out of the country and you need papers. For you and your girlfriend. But you never pick the documents. I thought you slipped away without them, I swear."

Sylar is frowning. Claire doesn't like the menace lurking in his eyes. The teenager picks on it too.

"We're buddies," Luke tells Sylar.

He speaks so quickly that the words blend into each other and frankly, Claire has a hard time thinking Sylar is buddies with anyone, let alone the boy sprawled on the floor. But he sounds honest.

Sylar's probably thinking the same thing she is. "What, did we become best friends while chanting at the _doomsday cult_?" he says dismissively.

"Kind of. I helped you find your dad."

"You know Martin?"

"What? No. Your real dad," Luke says rubbing his head and sitting up. "Samson Gray."

"Victoria and Martin are my parents," Sylar says.

Luke cringes. He shakes his head slowly. "No," he whispers. "It's Samson. Crazy cult leader."

The colour drains out of Sylar's face and his eyes look very dark, black pits of anger. He rounds the counter. His shadow falls over them. Claire jumps up, pressing both palms against his chest. Her hands rise and hold Sylar's face firmly in place, forcing him to look down at her.

"Don't hurt him. It's not his fault."

Miraculously, her words seem to have an effect on him. He stares at her with an intensity that could sear her skin. Sylar turns his head suddenly, grunting, but the anger in him is visibly muffled. Claire's hands slide down.

"I want passports for both of us," Sylar hisses at Luke.

"I can't. Not by myself," Luke says raising his hands in a protective gesture. "Rebel hack's into the government's databases, I produce the plastic. We need to get in touch with Matt and Rebel. We can get your IDs then and ... um ... fix the amnesia ... get you some answers."

"Be ready. We'll be back in two days," Sylar says as he begins to walk away.

"Sorry," Claire whispers to Luke.

Sylar's strides are long and he's moving quickly. He doesn't bother to slow down and wait for her. She catches up with him when he's rounded the corner. They are following darkened alleys, going past dumpsters and side-stepping cardboard boxes. He's quiet and Claire is not sure what she ought to say. She falls back, a few steps behind him. They walk in silence for a long time.

"I used to have a dream when I was a child," he says when they're close to their hotel, even though she doesn't think he's really speaking to her. "I'm at diner. I'm scared. I run out into the parking lot. There's a man arguing with a woman in a car. I think they are my parents. All of a sudden, he kills her. He pushes her body out of the car while I watch. Then he drives away. My mother ... she used to tell me it was just a nightmare. I had a wild imagination. But I was right."

It's chilly outside. Claire is not wearing gloves. She can feel the wind slicing into her hands and face. Sylar stops suddenly. She almost bumps into him. He turns. In the vanishing twilight, he looms dark and tall above her.

"Why do I tell you these things?" he asks.

He sounds bitter. She thinks there's also a hint of exhaustion in his voice. Like he's been running for a long time and is catching his breath just now.

"Because you want to," she replies.

The way his eyes narrow, she guesses she wasn't supposed to answer him. He was engaging in some sort of soliloquy she has interrupted.

He laughs. It's not a nice laugh. It rises in the coldness of the alley, as sharp as the wind beating her body; its the laughter of winter as it bites the leaves off a tree. Old, icy and relentless.

The laughter ends quickly. His mouth tightens.

"Why did you do that back there?"

"What?" she asks, although she has a good idea of what he's referring to: the moment when she stepped between Luke and Sylar.

"I don't understand you."

His eyes seem to rove over her. It makes a shiver go down her back and she clasps her hands. Stars are beginning to dot the sky. She can see the moon if she cranes her neck, rising behind him.

"I don't understand myself either," Claire admits, because more and more often she feels like someone has pulled the proverbial rug from beneath her feet when she talks to him.

She thinks about the boy in the magazine shop saying he was "buddies" with Sylar and his happy face at the sight of him. Then the ease with which Sylar tossed him against the wall. Maybe it's that Sylar didn't remember Luke, but Claire suspects even if he had recognized him, Sylar would have smashed him against the wall anyway. She thinks there's no such thing as "friends" or "safe" in his vocabulary.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Elusive Memories**

By Hedge Labyrinth

_Note: Series of short vignettes set in an AU universe_ _where_ _Sylar and Claire are both in the same containment facility. In this world, "specials" have been under surveillance for several years and Big Brother watches them._

Luke leads them to the back of the magazine store. There's boxes and crates. Objects hidden under heavy, white sheets. Paintings, he thinks, for he can see the bottom of the easels on which they rest.

A man and a woman stand in the back room. There's a kid with them. A boy, no older than fourteen. He's never seen them before, but Sylar notices the flicker of recognition that crosses their face. They know him.

"Sylar," says the man. "You've made it back."

The voice sounds familiar. Sylar frowns.

"It's good to see you again," says the woman.

"Or for the first time," Sylar replies casually. "I don't recall being introduced."

"We had to erase your memories of us when they took you away. Otherwise, they would have come for us," the man says. "There was a little time, and nothing else that could be done."

He's got a vague feeling that this is the guy responsible for the memory-wipe. There's something about him which makes his tongue click and he smiles. He's a police officer. He remembers Matt in his uniform, looking slightly silly with a gun and a badge. Like a kid playing at cops and robbers.

"Matt, isn't it?" Sylar asks. He feels as though certain blocks are shifting into place inside his head, like the sight of Matt is bringing back hidden facts, discarded images. An old, shriveled man flashes before his eyes. Gray hair and gray faced. There's something oddly familiar about him. He strains to hold onto the image and it floats away. "I want my memories back, Matt."

"That will be done, soon. We want to talk to Claire first. You must be confused. We want to explain," the woman says turning towards Claire.

"You're boring me. I need answers," Sylar says and looks at Claire. "It's faster if I kill them."

He's only half-joking, and they must realize that because the woman raises her hands, placating him. "Sylar, you wouldn't want to do that. We work together."

"Leona is telling the truth," Matt says. "We saved your life. Rescued you from your father."

"You and Luke had gone to find him and fell right into his clutches. Samson is dangerous," the woman, Leona says, "even if he has lost his powers."

A brief memory bubbles to the surface: the brittle face of an old man._ Samson. _

"Sylar's dad? He's a special then? Like us?" Claire asks. Her voice is so light and airy it snaps him out is reverie. The old man's face vanishes.

"He was. Once," Leona says, nods at Claire. "How much do you know about the experiments the government ran back in Coyote Sands?"

Claire shakes her head, a soft no.

"Figures," Leona says. "The government started testing and studying specials back in the 60s. It was strictly observe and catalogue. That changed in the 80s. Specials were becoming such a nuisance that the government managed to round up 200 individuals with abilities and decided to inject them with an ability-suppressing virus. It killed almost all of them. Except for three people. Samson Gray was one of them. He survived, but the virus worked; suppressed his abilities. It was a good thing, as far as society was concerned. Samson was a vicious, dangerous man."

Sylar remembers high school. He remembers seeing Noah Bennet for the first time and the deep frown creasing his brow, concern clear on his face even though Sylar is a little nothing, a nobody that has not manifested any latent abilities yet. Then it clicks. The reason why Bennet has been sniffing after him all these years: Bennet must have known. He must have known he was Samson's son. He thought he would grow up to be just like his father.

Evolution. Imperatives. Bennet had known this. He had seen the monster's spawn and predicted its path.

Sylar, quietly, had known it too. For some reason this knowledge stings.

"He cut himself off from society, went to live in some shack in the middle of nowhere. He was quiet. For a couple of years. Then the government, having scraped the virus research – it was too dangerous, had too many unintended consequences – began implementing other ways to deal with us. Legislation. Monitoring. Random testing. Suddenly Samson flared up again. Said he had been given a vision of the future: the end of the world, the death of all sinners and the survival of the true believers. He has managed to build quite the little cult around himself. His powers are gone, but he's more dangerous than ever before. Now he possesses a stronger weapon: devotion."

"What do you mean?" Claire asks.

"His little cult grows by leaps and bounds. You can't blame specials. We are being corralled and pushed, and eventually something gives. And there comes Samson, spreading his gospel of death. People want to believe in something, anything. He gives it to them and seeds a bit more death. Oh, he's smart. Don't worry. He's never done anything _illegal_. Yet, mysteriously, his devotees rush into banks and shoot people. Or try to detonate themselves in the middle of Times Square."

"Sylar and Luke ... they were his devotees too," Claire says.

"Yes. They were also looking for something and found it. You found your father alright, didn't you Sylar?" the woman asks. "Only he didn't tell you the _whole_ truth."

He can recall the giddy enthusiasm of Luke, sitting in the passenger's seat of the car because they are going to visit the old geezer Luke has been following through the Internet. They've corresponded and Luke is almost an acolyte, almost a favourite and now they get to see him in person. Sylar is not giddy, but there is a nervousness running through his body. Like an electric current. He wants to see where he really comes from.

When he was a child, he wished a stranger would come and tell him his family wasn't his family. He didn't want to be the insignificant child of an insignificant couple. He wanted to change. He wanted to be special. The shy, watchmaker's kid with the curious, darting eyes ... what a joke. He hated him.

The memory is so clear Sylar can taste it: the satisfaction at meeting Samson, at discovering his true origins and that he is, in the end, the son of a king. It may be a king of misery, an apostle predicting the end of the world and eliciting the adoring cries of the desperate. But he is _someone_. Samson is _special_, unique in his own way and he loves Sylar. Heir to his future kingdom of ashes.

The man's weathered face is very clear. He can see the resemblance. Samson's eyes when he sees Sylar ... the eyes burn, so dark and then ... then its flash forward to the moment when Matt springs a bunch of them free. Only "free" is not the right word, because none of them want to go. They are simply being taken. Deprogrammed, Matt says. Flash forward a bit more and Matt is shoving a picture in his face. It's a painting. There's a blonde woman. In the painting he stands next to her on a pile of rubble and he has an arm draped across her shoulder. He looks ahead, defiantly. She looks over her shoulder, towards a pile of corpses.

_That's you, we identified you, _Matt says. _But we are looking for the girl. Do you know the girl?_

The past, it wraps around his head: Sylar is pissed off. He figures the whole reason why he's been seized by Matt is her, the damn cheerleader he didn't kill back in Texas when he had the chance. He's not willing to say anything, but Matt is a special too and he worms his way into his head. Stealing the name from him: Claire Bennet.

Claire.

Bennet.

Like music. It has a rhythm to it. Claire Bennet. Claire. Claire. _Claire._

_Claire Bennet,_ Matt says. _You must find her._

_I don't even know where she is_, says another voice. His own voice. Sylar in the past, Sylar joining their little rebellion.

_You will. We've seen it_.

_Just like you saw the end of the world? Can't say I give a damn._

_But you give a damn about revenge._

_Don't presume to know me, Matt._

The words echo in his ears. Revenge. The whole truth. The pieces are sown together so quick it is almost painful until it all coalesces.

"My father never said he murdered my mother. He left out that bit," Sylar says.

Ah, yes. But Matt and Leona had known. They had told him and Sylar had finally understood: he was being used my Samson, master manipulator.

It was not love which he saw in Samson's dark eyes that day when they met. It was merely hunger. Hunger for the abilities Sylar had. The useful things he could do for his congregation.

It was not love, but he thinks he can remember love: his mother's hand wrapped around his, her arms around him. His birth mother, that is. His adopted mother was not fond of physical demonstrations of affection. But his real mother ... oh, he can see the ghostly image of a woman, carrying him in her arms. Running with him ... only Samson is always behind.

He had been loved and Samson had hidden her memory from him. Matt revealed the lies, digging into his skull and pulling them out.

Lies. Always lies. Not for the first time. Not for the last.

"You told me to find Claire Bennet and in exchange you'd help me find Samson again," Sylar says now that the cloud has lifted, his past restored fully. "He's on the move now. He's not staying still. And he's very hard to find."

"Very hard to get to by one person too," Matt says. "Even someone like you. His devoted followers would do anything for him."

"Wait" Claire says raising a finger, "so Sylar has been looking for me all along? To bring me here?"

"We erased his memories, but subconsciously he must have remembered his mission," Matt says with a shrug. "We thought he'd find you, eventually. We foresaw it."

"And now you are safe with us," Lenora says, stepping forward and clasping Claire's shoulder.

Claire does not seem too thrilled with the idea. He feels her shifting closer to him, bridging the space between them. It makes him quirk an eyebrow.

"Why would you want me here?"

"Claire, Samson wasn't lying about an apocalypse. A vicious virus which will destroy most of the world. We have people among us who have seen the future. It will happen. Thanks to Samson."

"He'll create it. He'll release the virus. We don't know how yet," Matt says. "We only know it will happen."

"But you will live. You will be immune to it. We think, if we can study you, if we can see ..."

"No," Claire shakes her head. "No studying. How do you know I'm immune to this future virus anyway?"

"You will be and if Samson finds out ... he may try to kill you. He wouldn't want the key to stop his apocalypse to be walking around, safe and sound. Don't you think?" the woman asks her.

"But you can't know," Claire insists. She's so close now that Sylar can feel her hand brushing against his.

"We do."

It's the young boy who has not spoken who raises his voice. There's something about his tone which seems to humble the adults. Leona and Matt respectfully move aside to let him pass, to move towards the paintings and the boy – Micah, this is the child prodigy of the Rebellion – pulls the white sheets hiding the canvases.

The first canvas shows Claire, top off her head sliced open and blood dripping down her face. It's the moment when he acquired her power, after their escape. The second painting draws a laugh from him: it's a mirror image of that exact same moment. They are all standing in the back of the store and the paintings are being uncovered. He's seen the third canvas before, so it comes as no surprise. Matt showed it to him, right after he dug into Sylar's brain, fished for memories of his mother and revealed the truth about Samson. The painting shows Sylar and Claire in the city of corpses, he looking ahead, she looking behind.

The fourth and final painting is deceptively simple in its composition: three bodies on the floor, Claire's face up close. He recognizes one of the bodies: Noah Bennet. There's also a woman and a teenage boy. They lay at Claire's feet. She is kneeling down, but instead of looking at the bodies her face is up-turned, towards the viewer.

"It has been foretold," Micah says. There is a weight to his voice, like a stone falling into a well.

Claire looks at Sylar. She reminds him of the supplicant in a stained glass window he saw when he was a child: Saint Barbara, praying to be spared from her father's sword, a peacock feather in her right hand. He turns from her. He does not understands what her eyes ask of him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: Deep Silence**

By Hedge Labyrinth

_Note: Series of short vignettes set in an AU universe_ _where_ _Sylar and Claire are both in the same containment facility. In this world, "specials" have been under surveillance for several years and Big Brother watches them._

Claire twirls a strand of hair around her fingers. She sits on a couch, rigidly facing the window. The view from their hotel is poor. Not that she seems to care. Sylar is sure she is not looking at anything. She sits and tugs at her hair, bites her lips.

"Do you believe in fate?" she asks.

He believes in evolution. He believes in natural selection. He believes some things are hardwired into a person's genetic code. But it's not what she means. She is wondering about the painted future they have gazed upon.

"If we can really see the future, if what they say is true ... then who is to say we can change anything?" she asks. "The first two paintings came true, so why will the other paintings suddenly fade? Wouldn't it all be set in stone?"

"Unless you believe in parallel universes. Schrödinger's cat and all that."

"Which means?"

He feels a little proud of his nerdy years spent browsing through books, swallowing information and considering time, its essence and behavior. It seemed so important to him, once.

"That a change in this current timeline would create a divergent future. Or rather, that there are a multitude of divergent futures. It's all theory, of course."

"Will you kill my father?" she asks all of a sudden. "If the virus doesn't kill him, will you kill my dad?"

He sits in front of her, shrugging.

"What makes you ask?

"You want to kill your own dad. You said you'd kill Elle. I'm pretty sure you are going to murder Matt and the others once they lead you to Samson. Am I wrong? You haven't thought about slicing their heads?"

Sylar leans forward, the fluid movement of a snake. Of course he's considered killing Matt. He took his memories, after all. But he doesn't like the notion that he is so transparent and predictable.

"You must have thought about killing my dad."

"It crossed my mind," he admits.

"Then, if you succeed and murder your father and we stop the virus, my dad still dies."

"Bummer," he mutters.

"You were not in the final painting," she spits back. "Maybe you also die because you are not immune."

Perhaps there is something unique to Claire that provides her with immunity to the virus. Perhaps this uniqueness can not be replicated, even when absorbing an ability. He can grant her that. Not that it matters much.

"Even if that is true, we are going stop the apocalypse from happening, remember? No virus, no fourth painting."

"My family is off limits. Whatever happens ... you'll stay away from my dad."

"Why?" he asks, his mouth set into a cruel grin. "Not that I was planning on putting any bullet holes in his body just now, but denying the possibility would be incredibly foolish."

"Now? Even when we are partners?"

Sylar does his best not to break up laughing, but can't help the blistering sarcasm that seeps from him.

"You sound like Luke. You sound like a kid. I told you before: grow up."

"That's right. No friends. No allegiances. You are using Matt and all of those people. You used me."

"We used each other. We escaped. Have you any objections on that matter?"

"You are leaving me with them," she tells him. "You're dumping me by the side of the curb."

"A bit melodramatic, don't you think?" he says, rolling his eyes. "They'll keep you safe. You'll be fine."

"What if I want to stick with you?"

"Whatever for? To make sure I don't scalp your father? You are getting in my way. I don't like it."

He expects her to fly at him, blows and punches and kicks. She drifts towards the window, quietly.

"I've made it clear before. Claire, who do you think I am? A storybook hero?" he asks, mockingly.

She does not answer. The silence itches, makes him jump up until he stands next to the young woman. He sees tears caught in her lashes. They sparkle like diamonds. He has a thought to catch one of them and look at it on the palm of his hand.

"I don't know who you are," she says. "I don't know who you can be."

The way she says it makes him wish multi-verses were a solid reality. In another world, she could be Claire Bennet, pretty young woman going about her business without visions of impending doom in her head. Maybe she wouldn't be a special in that world.

For the first time, he thinks that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

He pictures Gabriel the watchmaker sitting behind his work table, thick glasses and slicked, dark hair. Perhaps one day the Claire in that world could walk into Gabriel's shop to have a watch fixed and perhaps – unlikely, but this is not a solid reality after all – he might get the courage to ask her out. Perhaps, in that world, Gabriel could brush the tears from Claire's eyes when she is sad.

There is no multi-verse and Sylar is grounded in the here, in the reality of the now and the fact of what he is. And he is not the man who can catch tears in his hands. There's an inky darkness inside of him, a gaping pit. It prevents him from coming in contact with her.

Schrödinger's cat. He feels alive and dead at the same time when he looks at Claire.

Claire tilts her head and he thinks she's about to bawl into an outright cry fest, so he takes a step back, to the relative safety of the other side of the room. Surprisingly, the tears do not increase. They roll quiet and slow down her cheeks.

Claire puts her arms around him, presses her head against his chest. Sylar freezes, shocked by the gesture. She holds onto him, quietly weeping and he doesn't have the strength to shove her away.

Somehow she's holding his hand, leading him towards the bed. Incongruous. Even more shocking, he lets himself be dragged by her. It's like a spell. Like the pensive maiden who tames the unicorn in the tapestries.

What a thought. More likely he is a dragon, a manticore with a scorpion's tail.

He considers asking her if she's gone mad. It's the only explanation. She removes the elastic band holding her hair in a pony-tail and shakes it free.

_A mon seul desir_, he wishes to say.

Words. He's forgotten how to speak. It's completely different from Elle. Elle talked so much. Dirty words and encouragements, seductive games. Claire doesn't say a thing. He can't bring himself to utter a word.

Sylar realizes he is scared to death of her. Of the way he feels when Claire unbuttons his shirt and the gentle, tentative fingers sliding up his chest.

If it ever came to this he thought he would be the instigator, the driver. Odd that it's Claire who marks the tempo; it is Claire who is seducing him and it is not even intentional. At least, it doesn't seem intentional.

When he falls back into the bed he watches her for a moment – a nymph of pearl and gold, clad only in shadows – before making the first gesture of the evening: he clasps her hand and pulls her down to him.

He presses a soft, slight kiss against her parted lips. Sylar closes his eyes and his heart is hammering, like a clock that lost its rhythm. Out of synch and out of his mind. He counts the beats. Time drifts very slowly, it comes to a halt and who cares about the beats anymore.

When the kiss ends, she exhales, as if all the strength is leaving her body and she falls, boneless next to him.

He recalls that the maidens who lured the unicorns, who made the unicorn lay its head on their lap, did so to allow the hunters to sink their arrows into the unicorn's flank. He knows that she will be his weakness. A wiser man wouldn't allow such a thing and maybe come morning he'll reconsider, berate himself for allowing a siren to dash him against the rocks.

Morning is far off. He is caught between Scylla and Charybdis, and it's far too late to veer his course. He turns to her, runs a hand down her body and he is _alive_.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: Quoting Shakespeare**

By Hedge Labyrinth

_Note: Series of short vignettes set in an AU universe_ _where_ _Sylar and Claire are both in the same containment facility. In this world, "specials" have been under surveillance for several years and Big Brother watches them._

Claire wakes up on strange shores, marooned among white sheets and a tangle of limbs. It's the grey, murky hour before morning, when night still holds sway and the sun begins to consider gliding up in the sky. She feels like Ferdinand in _The Tempest_, surviving a fearsome wreck and walking in the sand. She does not understand if she made love to Ariel or Caliban.

She looks at Sylar's profile, which is handsome and strong and in his sleep mutedly gentle.

Last night she was afraid of death. She feared the future and everything it might bring. And he spoke only of revenge and death and she wanted to yell "be quiet." There was too much death already – not for her, never for her, but for everyone else – and he only had more death in his eyes, a tall, grim reaper by her side. Claire wanted life. She seized it.

She recalls him wrapping his arms around her and the moment when her eyes fluttered and she said his name, the one sound she allowed herself. She transmuted desolation into desire. But now it is morning and her magic has fled.

She feels ghostly and wonders what she looks like. If she glanced in the mirror, would she see herself? Because she doesn't think it was Claire last night ... and him, it couldn't have possibly been him pressing against her body, fingers on her thighs. So this must be another Claire and the former Claire must have fled.

This Claire has summoned a daemon lover. Foolish girl. Everyone knows the daemon's ship fades under the light of the sun and the woman plunges into the icy water.

Claire stretches her body and stares at the ceiling. She feels him stir, his eyes on her.

Her heart is hammering loudly inside her chest. She fears it will wake the whole building.

"When he was younger, my dad wanted to be an English teacher," she says. "He loves Shakespeare. He told me that Shakespeare already thought of every single scenario of the human experience, so that if you know enough Shakesperian quotes, you have an answer for any possible question."

She lets her breath out slowly.

"I don't have a quote for this," she says and turns to look at him.

His brow is furrowed. He sits up. "I'm heading east with Matt. Today. You understand this, don't you?" he asks very carefully, as one might speak to a child. "You are staying with Luke and Leona."

She tenses immediately. She remembers the conversation they had with those people at the magazine store, yes. There is no need to rehash it and it was all very well and understood. Still, she raises her chain, defiant. "I'd like to go with you."

"No. My father would kill you."

"I'm immortal, remember?"

"He's creative," he says, earnestly.

"That's one more reason why you need someone to watch your back."

"Thing logically, Claire," he says tapping his head, as if to drive in his point. "You're too important to these people. You are the cure to the apocalypse. Save the cheerleader, save the world. Matt is not going to drive you all the way into Samson's clutches and I need to find Samson."

Sylar pushes himself out of bed, fishing for his clothes. Claire watches him quietly. She speaks when he sits down to put on his socks.

"Is that the only reason why you are going? To kill your father?"

"We must all kill our fathers in order to grow up," he replies. "Cronos overthrew Uranus and Zeus deposed Cronos."

"You fancy yourself a god then?"

He glances over his shoulder at her, a lock of dark hair falling over his eyes. "Eventually. Claire, if you think I am doing this for a more altruistic reason than revenge, you are mistaken. I hate my father. He lied to me, tried to manipulate me and murdered my mother. As simple as that. It's nothing terribly hard to understand."

Claire bites her lips and presses her palms against the mattress. She considers Zeus and his brief dalliances with mortals. Leda and the swan; the swan flies away. She doesn't want to ask him if he's coming back because she's almost certain of the answer: if he succeeds he will not and if he doesn't and the virus tears the world apart, then he will find her once more. Because it was in the painting, both of them walking together. But in the fourth painting he is gone.

He is abandoning her.

She pictures herself, watching the oceans of the world dry and the sun grow dim, all alone.

She doesn't want to say: stay. It would be inappropriate and trite. She searches for words and finds a phrase that seems to convey the depth of feeling she is experiencing.

"We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage... so we'll live. And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh at gilded butterflies."

His shoulders tense and fall. "King Lear is a tragedy," he retorts.

"I can't recall the comedies right now," she says.

He pulls on his shirt. She wraps her arms around her legs, her cheek against her knees. There is something that is dying in her that instant, but she does not cry. She spent her tears the night before, spent the sadness upon the bed sheets and though she may be breaking, she will not show it now when he sits with his back turned towards her, buttoning up.

Daemon lovers always go to sea. It is a fact.

He pulls on his coat and walks to the door. His hand rests on the doorknob. He looks at her, solemn and harsh, his dark eyes threaten to swallow her whole. He moves very quickly, dashing back towards the bed and pressing her against the pillow, his mouth hot against her skin.

Nothing can scar her, but she suspects he is burning a mark upon her. She retaliates, kisses him back, wills a part of her to stay with him.

Let it _stay_.

He holds her head between his hands and presses his forehead to her own.

"Doubt thou the stars are fire. Doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar," he whispers.

Claire knows that quote. It's Hamlet and she blinks and struggles to remember the rest.

He pulls himself up, quickly rushes out and the door. The door shuts with a soft click.

She wraps the bed sheet around her shoulders and moves towards the window, waiting. A few minutes later she sees him stepping out of the hotel. He turns once, glances up at her window.

Act Two.

She presses a hand against the glass. He smiles at her, a genuine sign of pleasure spreading across his face.

Scene Two.

"But never doubt I love."

She says the final line quietly, but it echoes in her mind.

It is a fact too, that daemon lovers return with the tide.

#

Below, he pauses to look at her window and catches a glimpse of golden hair and a pale, pretty face.

Like a clock that marks the same hour for many years, then one day lurches forward and begins to tick again, his heart skips a beat and he smiles. A joyous few seconds which make him feel terribly young.

Sylar whips his head forward, the smile strictly tucked into a shadowy corner where it will not be seen – he prays it shall not, for there are always hunters in the woods. The icy wind pulls him away.

THE END


End file.
